Chapter 11 #2
Toweling off, I drag my jeans over damp legs, fighting to get the denim up. I finally do and head into the shop, even though it’s not even eight and no one’s coming by this early.
I need to move. I need to do something to stop myself from walking into her cabin, pressing her into the cabinets, and getting lost in her fucking mouth and those looks and moans that unravel me.
I check inventory that doesn’t need checking. I restack dry bags. I clean the same counter three times until Reece walks in and throws a half-eaten breakfast taco at my head. “Sheesh, man. You polishing the damn wood grain off that counter? Take a breath.”
I catch the taco but don’t answer him. I ignore him and he smirks, watches me for a beat, then, he crosses his arms. “So... you two finally get biblical or what?” I glare at him.
He grins wider and whistles. “You’re glowing.”
“Fuck off, Reece.” I snap.
He laughs, surprised and a little proud sounding. “Damn. You really did, Gruene.”
I don’t respond to his obvious fishing because if I open my mouth, I might say something I can’t take back.
Something like, “ I can’t stop thinking about her or I think I left a part of me in her hands last night and I’m not sure I want it back.”
He says, “You deserve some happiness, man,” and moves behind the counter starting to sort life jackets. He mercifully says nothing else, but I know he’s watching me, waiting to see if I’ll talk but knowing I won’t.
He’s not just my employee. He’s my closest friend and the only family I have left… now.
He knows me better than anyone and he knows when something’s shifted.
And something definitely has…
By noon, I’ve already burned through two tank refills, power washed the patio I just did last week and repaired the trailer hitch on the old flatbed I rarely use.
I’m soaked in sweat and sawdust. My shoulder injury is acting up, the scar tissue is throbbing but all I can think about is the way her nails dug into my back last night.
The way she whispered my name like it was the only word she trusted as she came for me, from me, over and over and over again.
Gruene.
Not Gruene, the asshole neighbor. Not Gruene the broken man who can’t let anyone in.
But Gruene, the man she chose to want.
Still here.
That’s what I wrote.
That’s what I meant.
But now I’m wondering if being here is enough.
When the crowd thins out and the last shuttle heads upriver with floaters and loud-ass college kids, I finally allow myself to do what I’ve been avoiding all day.
I head up the gravel drive, cross the narrow patch of grass between our cabins and knock once on her door.
No answer. I knock again. Nothing.
My stomach twists and I turn, scanning the dock. Empty.
I look over the riverbank. Still nothing.
Glancing down, I spot her flip-flops on her porch. Her keys are on the sill. And her is car still parked out front.
She’s home.
She’s just not answering. Something about it rattles me.
I sit on her porch steps like an idiot. I don’t pace. I don’t knock again.
I just… wait.
The same way I waited in the hospital bed, attached to machines after being told I needed major surgeries six years ago for someone to tell me they made it. That Molly was breathing. That Aubree, my baby girl, was breathing. That they made it out of the water when I already knew they had not.
Panic fills my lungs, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t that.
This isn’t death. Death is final. There’s no coming back. When someone dies, they’re dead. Nothing can change that fact.
This is something different.
This is not knowing if the woman who looked me in the eye while I was buried inside her is now regretting every second she let me close.
This is a different kind of ache… of fear.
Her door opens twenty minutes later, and she looks like she’s been crying.
Her hair is damp. Her face is scrubbed clean. Her eyes widen when she sees me standing there, like she didn’t know I was even here.
“Sorry. I—I was in the shower,” she says quietly.
Relief hits me like a goddamn sledgehammer, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I nod. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.”
She leans against the frame. “I know. I was in the shower. You could have come in.”
I flinch though she isn’t accusing me of anything.
I could have gone in. I think I should have. But I just don’t know what I’m doing here.
I mutter, “I know. But I didn’t know if I had the right to… do that. This morning, I left a note,” I say.
She lifts a brow. “I know. I got it. We talked about it on the dock.” She sighs. “Gruene, if anyone has the right to come in my home when I’m in the shower, it’s you. But I can’t make you not want to leave. I can’t make you not want to wait on the porch for me to open the door. “
I open my mouth to say something, but she shakes her head. “I’m not mad. I don’t want you to think I am. I’m not.”
I blink but say nothing. It sounds like she has more to say, and I want to hear what it is before I say a damn thing. .
“I just... I thought I’d feel abandoned. Like I always used to after—” She swallows. “But I didn’t. I felt... okay .”
What?
I take a slow step closer. “You didn’t look okay just now.”
She shrugs. “Sometimes crying is okay, Gruene. It’s just a way to cleanse. It doesn’t have to be… bad . I’ve cried so many tears in pain and shame and heartbreak… it was powerful to cry because I just feel so much.”
I nod once. “I wouldn’t know.”
Her eyes soften. Then, she steps aside. “You want to come in?”
I do and I don’t.
I shouldn’t. I should leave. But my feet move before I can stop them.
Her cabin smells like cedar and her shampoo.
Music is playing low… something country, not quite sad.
She heads to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, before she turns, handing it to me.
Taking it, I twist the cap off, and sip.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says without looking at me. “I was tired and I wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t.”
“Me either.” I reply. But I never sleep. In dreams they come and I’m not strong enough to face them.
She glances at me . “You didn’t want to?”
“Didn’t try to.” I say.
She nods. “Same.”
Silence stretches until I break it. “I thought about coming over.” Her breath catches. “I didn’t because I didn’t know if that would make it harder.”
She closes the fridge. “It would’ve made it realer.”
“It was already real, Blakelyn. That’s the problem.” I grunt.
Her voice is soft. “I know. That’s what scares me.”
I set the bottle down and take two steps toward her. Before I can stop myself, her name leaves my mouth, “Blakelyn.” It tastes like sin and salvation in the same breath. She turns to face me. “I don’t do this. I don’t know how to do this.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She quietly says.
What? What does she mean?
I blink and she says, “Gruene, I’m just asking you to keep showing up. That’s it.”
I stare at her, and suddenly, I can’t stay still.
I pace the length of her living room once.
Twice. Then, I stop in front of the window that looks out over the river but I’m not seeing the river.
“Molly used to put little lavender-scented candles everywhere,” I say, my voice low.
“Said the smell helped her sleep.” She doesn’t say anything, so I keep going, staring out of a window but seeing the past. “I hated them. The sickly sweet smell turned my stomach. I hated the way they’d drip down the sides and pool on the wood, stripping off the finish.
I hated the way she’d forget to blow them out and I’d have to go through the house and double check everything every single night.
” I exhale and swallow before saying, “God, I miss those fucking candles so much I think about lighting one just to feel her here again.”
She steps closer. I feel her behind me, but she doesn’t touch me. “Gruene, talk about her. It’s okay. She was your wife. I want you to. Talk about them both if you want to.”
I can’t…
I fucking can’t. Because talking about them with you feels wrong.
I shake my head. “I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.”
Exhaling, she says, “That’s okay.”
She doesn’t push. She doesn’t flinch. She just waits. And that does more damage than anything else. She’s not trying to fix me. She’s letting me choose .
Turning around, I face her. Her eyes are soft, warm, and full of compassion. She doesn’t have any jealousy. There’s no judgement. She looks so fucking present I want to scream.
But not at her.
At the ache in me. At the way she makes me want things I told myself I’d buried. At the terror of hope.
I cross the room in two strides and press her back against the wall. She gasps, but it turns into a moan as I kiss her.
Not like last night. Not like fucking. But like this is what I’ve needed all day. All fucking year .
She moans again softly as her fingers curl into my shirt. Her lips part, and her tongue slides over and around mine. I pull back before I lose myself in her again
“I’m not okay,” I whisper against her mouth, breathing heavily.
“I don’t need you to be.” She whispers back.
“I’m not safe. ” I groan.
“You’re not dangerous.” She calmly says back.
“I’m not ready.” I finally say.
Sighing, she smoothes her palms down my shoulders and arms. Her touch is no longer intimate just comforting. “I’ll wait.”
My eyes burn as her forehead rests against mine. For the first time in six years, I feel like I’m not drowning on dry land.
I’m breathing.
Barely.
But I’m fucking breathing.